


To have a heart

by Thirteen_Winter_Vixens



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thirteen_Winter_Vixens/pseuds/Thirteen_Winter_Vixens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How everyone finds out Sherlock actually has emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To have a heart

Lights are flashing.

He knows there should be noise, most definitely, there is noise. His mind can't help but to diagnose him; shock. He knows all the symptoms, he's read them a thousand times. Read it in people, in textbooks; all the same really. He looked at people in shock as if they were inferior, too weak to stay clear headed, to stay in control. He's done so a million times, to hundreds of people throughout his life.

Here, he is huddled against a car, trying, without hope, to slow his heartbeat, to think. To think. He has to, his mind has to work, it has never failed him before. But all it does is conjure images of John. John. All of them are of John. Laughing at some comment he made, reading a book, blogging, looking at him with awe and a glint in those eyes when he figures out what he is thinking. John.

He can't breathe, he can't stop the gasp that comes out as he clenches his chest, his heart pounding painfully. It hurts. God, it hurts. It shouldn't, he should be calm, should be helping, he has to do something. But as he curls up further he sees the trembling of his hands, he notices his whole body is shaking. He raises his hands to his face and then, shockingly, comes back with them wet. He's crying. A first for him.

He can't feel his hands, or his back against the car, the ground beneath his feet is there; he can see it all perfectly fine but doesn't feel a thing, nothing but the alarming clench in his chest. He finally looks up into the flashing lights, sees the chaos of the so called professionals. They're running around, shouting to each other, trying to get the area secured and check for any survivors, they're checking for John. His John, the one he knows is gone. Forever. Completely now, out of his reach.

Two paramedics are in front of him and he has no idea how they appeared without him seeing, but as the light flashes in his eye, he sees them say something, he still can't hear. No, instead he hears John.

John is flashing a light in his eyes looking grim. “You're looking fine but you should hold still, I still need to check-” “John really, I'm fine. Do you really think I could be beaten by a lowlife, not to mention that said lowlife being the so called criminal mastermind Stephan Stone? Pathetic. Do you have any faith in me at all?” John takes a moment to grumble before smiling slightly as he says, “I just don't want to see you hurt Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?” He looks up and sees Lestrade in front of him. He's sitting in on the edge of an ambulance now. He puts losing count of time as a symptom of shock too. “Sherlock, do you remember where you last saw John?”

John.

The first time they met Sherlock was almost seventeen. They never actually remembered it until a case just a year ago, when both of them commented on the yearly party in Cambridge that the students always had. Getting invited was easy with Mycroft's help and John had shook his head as they moved around the younger crowd. “You know, I only ever went to ones of these. Back in 93, I was just fresh out of training, ready to go abroad in a tour. I was both excited and nervous and some mates brought me here for our last party. It was actually a good time.”

Sherlock had started frowning at the words ninety-three. He himself had only spent a year at Cambridge before transferring to Oxford. His mind palace automatically opened up for him flashing through images until it stopped and Sherlock himself had to stop. The image of his sixteen year old self talking in this very spot to then twenty year old John. Blonder, the same height then, John had been clear skinned, not a frown line on his flushed face. His smile though was still the same as well as the eagerness in his eyes when talking about danger. It was an instant connection, just like when they met again, it was just there. And the Sherlock who was sitting sullenly on the sofa and the awkward John who really didn't feel comfortable with the rest of the people had sat down. Within a minutes a conversation had somehow started and for both of them, the night had looked up and ended too quickly. John was frowning, “Sherlock, why did you stop, we have to find Adams within an hour.” “Best hope you're not deployed to Sierra, the heat will surely kill you within a week.”

John looked both confused and worried for a few moments before his eyes widened and then he said, “Oh.” Then after a few seconds of that information dawning on them, John chuckled much to Sherlock's confusion, “What is it?” Sherlock hated it when John knew something he didn't. “Well it does make sense now, I knew I was too fast getting used to you.” Sherlock smiled and lead the way through the crowd.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade's worried voice echoed with John's, “Sherlock? Are you ...okay?” John looked so worried, his eyes were wide and Sherlock could almost hear his friend's heart pounding, but friend was becoming a weak term. For weeks, Sherlock tried to ignore John's glances, the hesitance in touches. He could tell when John was trying not to think in front of him. He had no problem with being attracted to a man, he had tried both genders but found both lacking, only John had ever made him stop, made him realize that someone might actually come to care for him. And now John had just made his move. Suddenly without intending it.

Sherlock had gotten grazed in a fight with his latest criminal and with John carefully applying bandages to his forehead he had instinctively leaned in and kissed him gently, chastely but then froze and shot back. Sherlock had frozen too, though, not out of shock, no, he instead was forced to face what he had been ignoring for weeks. He had to acknowledge that he felt something. Something more than what he had ever thought possible. Sherlock for the very first time didn't think as he spoke just as instinctively. He heard John ask him once more, and replied, “Why would I not be okay?” He can't help to feel a tinge when John smiles in relief.

It started to rain now, Sherlock realizes. Someone has wrapped a blanket around him but he's still trembling and he knows it's mixed with shivers. Lestrade has finally gone off, has John been found yet? No, he would have been aware of that. The fire is still going from the blast, the rain is now helping with it but he knows that somewhere in that office building his John is laying there, still, empty, a shell of what everything he once was. He was everything to Sherlock, his link, his missing other half. He raises his head to the rain, letting it wash away everything, everything that he is.

The first time they made love, for lack of better word and sex wasn't enough to explain the way it had felt for Sherlock, even though a part of him still thought it was too much, too, as John had put it, mushy. Because he understood sex, he wasn't a virgin as much as Mycroft would like to have everyone believe; John, although, was different, he felt a connection that wasn't just about release, John was the first person he genuinely cared about, the first person he actually wanted to keep and not let down. It was frightening for Sherlock. Surprisingly for him, John had been dominate, leading, guiding, gentle and slow. John never stopped whispering endearments, never stopped kissing any place he could reach. His lips, cheeks, neck, shoulders; he could still feel those kisses right now, it had been raining that night he recalls and a sliver of sharp pain stabs his chest. It had been a lullaby then. He wants John there with him right now and a part of him wants to call out to him even knowing he wont be there to yell back or complain or even just shake his head and do whatever Sherlock had demanded.

The worst most crippling guilt enters his chest as he recalls all of John's, his John's, declarations of love. First was in the middle of their lovemaking which Sherlock had put up to the passion causing John to lose his ability to think straight. But as they were repeated in the dark of night before sleep, when parting for a difficult case which usually accompanied, 'be careful Sherlock' or 'don't do anything foolish Sherlock.' He wants to shout, to storm, to rage just like the fire, the blast, the bullets that he knew riddled John. He wants to destroy, destroy himself, destroy everyone.

But most of all he wants to tell a living John, a John that's safe and warm as Sherlock snuggles into his side on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around him, he wants to say, “I love you too.” It comes out barely as a breath but then its like the barrier in him is gone and he crumples into himself, not a chance at stopping the sobs that rack him to the depth of his core. It only when he hears shouts that he looks up, its so hard, every bone in his body is metal, so heavy he's surprised he can even move.

But there he is, crowded, firemen are holding him. Sherlock could see the blonde hair, and he's standing before he knows, running before he even tries. He can see that the fire caught onto his legs, can see the dried blood on what used to be a white button down shirt. He hears sound as he runs, racing towards his only friend, his only lover, bolting around people, tossing one man to the ground, he sees John's face and it's there. Proof.

He freezes abruptly. His senses once more devastated and someone throws a sheet over Sherlock's other half. John, his John's face is lifeless, empty just like a rational solution. Sherlock knew John had been hit, had heard it over the phone call, John had told him they'd meet over in the parking lot as planned and Sherlock had heard the bullets, had heard John's gun going off both with the phone and the echoing through the building. He had ran as fast as he could but knew by the gasps by John telling him he loved him once again. The last time. The very last time.

That's what people did, they told their loved ones that simple truth, that absolute truth in that moment. And Sherlock had said, “Hold on John. I'm coming I'll be right there. Hold on!” Eleven words as bullets flew and not one of them had anything to do with saying goodbye. Sherlock couldn't say goodbye, it was unfathomable, a life without John Watson. But John Watson was now a body, lifeless, devoid of all the love that had been Sherlock's.

When Sherlock fell to the ground he realized the sound was coming from him. His shouts of John's name fell silent and Lestrade was holding him looking more worried than ever, his eyes bulging. Sherlock looked up seeing all of the closest people were starring at him. Some in wonder, some in shock, others in complete agony; knowing now what John Watson knew from the start.

The infamous Sherlock Holmes had a heart.

And it had just died.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock bolted up, a cry surfacing from his throat without meaning to. Sweat was drenching him and he was shaking. Turning over he saw the empty bed and couldn't stop the tears that made their way down his checks. He fell back to the damp bed and tried to breathe though it was difficult. Then suddenly, he felt the bed dip and a kiss on his forehead. “Sherlock? What happened? Are you okay?” A cool hand ran through his hair and slowly he calmed down.

Opening his eyes, he saw his precious John beside him looking very much concerned. “John...” Sherlock was shocked to find his voice chocked and John immediately reached for a glass of water. “Good thing I went downstairs for this. Here, you need it more than I do.” Sherlock took the glass gratefully and gulped down watching as John leaned against the headboard still looking worried since Sherlock was starring at him so intensely.

Putting the glass down Sherlock quickly got up and marched down the hall. He ignored the worried sound of a his name and went to the sitting room, grabbed the package and ran back to their room and straddled the older man. John looked surprised at such a gesture since the doctor was usually the one to make bold moves but smiled as Sherlock leaned down to kiss him. It turned fiery, passionate, desperate not at all their normal kisses. When they finally parted both were flushed and breathing deeply. “Well then, what caused this?” John said still smiling and hands still comfortingly roaming on Sherlock's back and through his hair.

Sherlock, in response, with the dream still vivid in his mind, laid the gun on John's side table. John frowned but relaxed as Sherlock laid his head down on John's chest. His heartbeat was strong and loud and soothed Sherlock more than the doctor ever could by kissing him. “I'm alive Sherlock.” The doctor said softly knowing exactly what had upset Sherlock so much, John's hands became even more gentle. Sherlock raised his head slightly to see the still red scar of the new bullet wound in his lover's chest.

That dream had been partially real, John had been hit, had said his goodbyes much to Sherlock's grief, but Sherlock had reached him, the building had blown up giving them barely enough time to get out. Both of them had burn scars on their legs, though not too deep. But they had escaped, both of them. He had spent three weeks waiting in the hospital for John to wake up from the surgery. Three weeks, holding onto all of those feelings. Because John could have died in any of those minutes of any of those days in those three weeks.

Without looking at John's face he said quietly, “I'm not very good at emotions or indeed anything attached to them. I don't keep many friends not only because I have no need for them or indeed wish for any,” Sherlock ignored John's slight chuckle here and continued, “but because this is my life. It's a dangerous one and I believed I wouldn't care deeply enough to be hurt by losing anyone. I just, I need you to know that...I can't lose you.” He said it fast, bluntly and with as little emotion as if reading an encyclopedia. When he looked at John he was still smiling but now his eyes were alight. “Sherlock, I know. You may never be the most attentive, emotional or even considerate lover but I wouldn't change anything about you. I know when your being attentive and considerate and especially emotional. You're not a psychopath Sherlock, I'd even challenge you on the mild sociopath if I thought I could win on that one.”

Sherlock smiled slightly knowing full well John would lose that one, John gave him so much trust, so much worth that Sherlock didn't know if he was worthy of it most of the time. Worthy of John loving him. John shook his head and pulled Sherlock's face to his own. He couldn't help but say, their lips almost touching, “Keep your gun beside you, always.” John smiled in the kiss that followed and Sherlock took that as an agreement. That night was powerful for both. Sherlock needed to show John everything he was feeling and John needed to give Sherlock reassurance that he would never leave, that he's safe, here in Sherlock's arms. Forever.

It was only as the sun began to rise beautifully clear outside, when Sherlock finally let John rest, did he whisper into the room. So quietly, if it had been anyone other than John they would have questioned whether he said it.

“I do love you John.”

Sherlock could feel John's answering grin against his head as he whispered back, “I've always known that Sherlock, you wouldn't be with me if you didn't. I love you too.” Nevertheless, John's arms tightened around him and neither let go.


End file.
